


Everything Stays

by thebooklord15



Series: The Unprofessional Universe [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Parenting, Brief mention of suicide attempt, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Murder, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Poisoning, Prequel to 'Frighteningly Unprofessional', Riddler's revenge, bad morals, basically my eddie's origin, ed is embellishing when he calls himself 'supercriminal', eddie not dealing with his feelings, haha repressing trauma til it goes away haha, my lad didn't even know batman yet lol, what a fuckin nerd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24755713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebooklord15/pseuds/thebooklord15
Summary: The day had finally come. Edward was going to kill his father.Things don't go exactly as he thought they would.Not everything stays exactly the way you left it, after all.
Relationships: None
Series: The Unprofessional Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821808
Kudos: 13





	Everything Stays

_Everything stays,_

_Right where you left it;_

_Everything stays,_

_But it still changes._

_Ever so slightly,_

_Daily and nightly,_

_In little ways, when everything stays._

_-Adventure Time, Everything Stays_

  
  
  
  


Our story began on a particularly rainy December evening, just on the outskirts of Haddonfield, New Jersey. Most people wouldn’t suspect any ill intent from such a quaint, community driven area such as this. 

Edward E.Nygma was not most people.

If he was, he supposed, he’d be shuffling off to bed right about now, perhaps brushing his teeth or tuning in to the evening news, just like all the other stuck up fakes that infested this godforsaken town. When he’d taken off with two-thousand dollars and his father’s Nissan Cube, he’d driven straight out of Haddonfield with no intent on coming back. There had been blood stains on his shirt and tears on his cheeks. He’d slept out of that same car for the entire two week road trip to Gotham city. 

Many changes had transpired between then and now, of course. The sixteen-year old boy with a narry a cent to his name had aged into a twenty-two-year old super-criminal with more money then he knew what to do with. (Well, that wasn’t _entirely_ true, seeing as he knew exactly what he would do with every penny he’d acquired, but you get the gist.)

It was almost amusing, he reflected, parking his Lamborghini in front of the dilapidated shack that was his childhood home. To think that this was the same house he’d fled from three years ago today. Looked almost exactly the same, too. Messy unkempt front lawn, scattered with weeds and old tires. Cheap looking white paint, slick with rain at the moment, slathered onto the wooden boards that created the house walls. A large gap at the top of the chimney that had been there for as long as he could recall. He couldn’t see the backyard from here but if he could he was sure that would remain relatively unchanged as well. There would be more piles of tires of course, accompanied by more weeds and overgrown grass. Would the stump from the old oak tree still be there? Likely, he thought. His father always remarked that he would get around to removing it eventually. Not that he ever made any effort to do so. He just continued to procrastinate, just as he did with the rest of the house's upkeep. If Edward closed his eyes and delved into his memory he would be able to conjure up the exact facial expression and phrase his father used. Since he had no desire to see or hear either of those things, he did not.

Instead he grasped the question mark-shaped handle of his cane tightly, took a deep breath, and exited the drivers side of his car. Rain splattered harshly onto his person. He cursed his neglect for the weather, fumbling for the third hidden button on his cane. An umbrella, which was a rich shade of purple, sprouted from the bottom. He ducked under it quickly, slamming the car door shut once he had. A frown now adorned his face. He used his free hand to lightly pat his gelled hair back into place. The frown deepened when it stuck to his gloves. They were _felt_ , he should have known that would happen! And oh god his _suit_! It would take forever to dry. 

Whatever- he could grieve about his ruined appearance later. He had business to attend to. With this in mind he stood just a bit taller and straightened his tie. 

He quickly closed the distance between himself and the front door. There was a change, he noted: no empty beer bottles littering the front steps. Perhaps the old man had taken to having his afternoon drink out back? Odd, but not _impossible_ Edward supposed.

His lock-pick made quick work of the door. He grasped the handle. Then, hesitated. 

There was still time to turn around, he thought. He could get back in his car, drive to the airport, have Nina or Diedre pick up the Lamborghini so he didn’t have to come back. 

Snippets of his childhood flashed before him like lightning in the sky: having his nose busted for cheating, scrambling under his bed to hide from a drunken monster, crying until he was sick, being hit _for_ crying so he cried even _more_ , bruised arms and legs and ribs, words and lies that had wounded him even more then the fists ever could: crybaby, thief, cheater, pussy, _moron_ -

A broken nose had also broken the metaphorical camel’s back. Edward had his nose damaged before, more often than not resulting in bruising or nose bleeds, but the fact that he had let his father _break_ something in him left him positively sick. To break something is to damage it permanently. Broken things can be put back together, yes, but they never come out the same. A broken vase is always defined by its cracks. Edward was not broken, and refused to be. 

He gripped the handle tightly. If he left now, all he would be doing was proving himself wrong and his father right. _Scared little Eddie, not man enough to look daddy in the eye._

The door opened with ease.

And then, he was home again.

\---

At least, it was _someone’s_ home.

For a brief moment there was a flash of doubt in his mind- had he broken into the wrong house somehow? Given the state of the room it almost made sense. Where the loveseat with the stain on the back should have been there was a plaid sofa, cushions fat with stuffing. Instead of the blocky rabbit-eared television there was a twenty inch flat-screen nailed to the wall. And were those _flowers_ on the drapes?

But then, as he gently closed the door behind him (after struggling to get the umbrella back inside the cane), something to his left caught his eye: a shelf on the wall facing the television. On it were several framed photographs. Phillip Nashton’s face smiled at him, muscular arm draped around a woman who was also smiling. She was not his mother.

So, he’d remarried then? Well. That hadn’t been anticipated. Edward had always assumed that after his mother’s demise his father would remain a widower for the rest of his days. But, then again, he supposed there was some reason to this particular rhyme. Following his son’s absence he would need someone else to beat up on, wouldn’t he? That was all this was then: replacing one punching bag for another.

As for the woman, he took one look at her spray tan and cheap-dye job and concluded that she lacked a brain.

He scoffed, surveying the living room again. The horrendous decor made _much_ more sense. 

Continuing further into the house he noted the other changes. The kitchen had been completely redesigned, the living room floor was carpet instead of wood, and _someone_ (probably Ms. Spray-On) had decided it was a good idea to paint the bathroom walls puke yellow.

What he tried to ignore were the things that stayed the same. The dent in the living room wall where Phillip’s fist had missed Edward’s face. A hole in the kitchen ceiling from when a drunken Phillip had tried to shoot Edward. Cracks in the bathroom mirror, with shards still missing because Edward had tried to-had _wanted_ to-

_No._ It was the past. It didn’t matter now. Things that didn’t matter didn’t define anything.

He wouldn’t let it matter. 

Edward finally arrived at his father’s bedroom door. He tested the handle. Unlocked. Another new thing. Slowly, he eased the door open. 

A deep, guttural snore erupted from the bed in front of him. The hand clutching his cane flinched towards his suit-jacket, where his pistol was hidden.

There was an almost frightening moment of silence. One beat, two beats, three- and the snoring resumed, albeit a bit quieter. Edward relaxed his stance. Nervously he adjusted his tie. He detested his jumpiness. He’d known this day was coming for the better part of his life, and the time to evaluate his decision had long since passed. Too much had already been put into this plan to back out now.

His father was going to die today. 

With forced determination he crept into the bedroom. Phillip was on the right side of the bed, drool coating his lips, and Ms. Spray-On to the left with her back to him. Edward headed for the right. His oxford shoes made no sound on the carpeting. He almost bumped into the corner table. Seeing a photograph of a younger version of himself made him scowl. It was from picture day, eighth grade. Dimpled cheeks and an unusual grin, leaking false bravado. He hated that picture of himself. Always had. Perhaps that was why the old man kept it around. Because he knew just how to get under Edward’s skin.

_I’ll just have to return the favor then, won’t I Philip?_

Question-marked cane tucked under his armpit, his now free hand roamed back to his pocket. Tucked against his pistol were a needle and a small vial filled with clear liquid. Ivy had refused to tell him what was in it, much to Edward’s displeasure, but had assured him that it would keep his father out long enough for the next step. _She’d better be right,_ he thought, filling the needle, _or my weed whacker will be having some choice words with her._

He squinted at Phillip’s figure, trying to pinpoint the best place to find a vein. The neck would deliver the tranquilizer more quickly, but was also one of the more sensitive areas on the body. What if the prick of the needle woke him up, and he managed to get a few hits in? It might wake Ms. Spray-On, and she just might call the cops. No, the neck was too much of a risk. That left him with the arms. One was hanging off the bedside, threatening to brush against his pant-leg, the other laid across it’s owner’s chest. Although it wouldn’t be nearly as quick as the carotid, the brachial would be an efficient artery to distribute the drug as well.

Mind made up, Edward delicately shifted Phillip’s arm- the one on his chest- so that his palm was facing upwards. Thankfully Phillip had worn a tank-top to bed, so his bicep was exposed. Face tight with concentration, he gently guided the needle into the chosen vein, pushed down on the plunger, and released Ivy’s concoction.

Edward’s heart leapt into his throat when he was done, and he quickly pulled the needle out, shuffling away from the bed. He braced himself for the incoming cries of outrage, blows that would land upon his torso, that horrible feeling of nausea as blood seeped from his nose and into his mouth-

But none of those things happened. What did occur was a stuttering, mucus filled snore from Phillip’s opened mouth. It halted abruptly and the room fell into an uneasy silence. Edward watched in sick fascination as his father’s breaths shallowed and became more soft, more quiet. Ivy had been right. _Maybe I’ll plant a couple trees when I get back in Gotham, as a thank you._

Usually thoughts like this made him snicker at his own wit. He found it odd, in a detached sort of way, that he had failed to amuse himself. Everything was going exactly according to plan, not one hitch present. He should be beside himself with glee, bouncing on the balls of his feet and applauding his own genius. For years he’d been dreaming of this revenge, salivating at the thought of getting back at his father. There should be relief, there should be pride, there should be some satisfaction for his actions.

Yet he felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He slipped the needle back into his pocket. Adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. Then, grabbing the pillow from under his unconscious parent’s head, he went around to the other side of the bed, pressed the pillow onto Ms. Spray-On's head, pulled out his pistol and fired into it. The _‘pop’_ of the gunshot, though muffled by the stuffing and cloth, made him flinch. A splotch of red pooled out beneath her loathsome hairstyle. The red color clashed with the pastel yellow of the bed-sheets. How fitting.

Pocketing his pistol once more, he returned to his father’s side of the bed with a sigh. The next part of this business was something he didn’t look forward to, but was unfortunately necessary.

Edward rolled up his sleeves, cracked his neck, left then right, grabbed Phillip by the armpits, and began to drag him out of his bedroom, so he could deposit him inside his Lamborghini’s trunk.

  
  


\---

Phillip Nashton awoke with an odd feeling. The bed seemed colder, _harder_ even. Had Brittany left the window open? She was prone to do such things, especially in more tired states such as tonight. Their sexual activities usually didn’t last more than one round, or an occasional two, but this time they’d managed three. Phillip had to restrain himself from a fourth, if he was being completely honest. Britt had being wearing that silky nightgown he liked, the one she saved for make-up sex and other special occasions. This time, thankfully, had not been make-up sex, rather it was celebration sex. Today was December nineteenth. The date that marked his second year of sobriety.

Realizing that he’d driven his own son, Edward, away from him bordered on the best and worst day of his life. It was the worst because he’d come to the realization, staring at his empty drive-way, cash relieved from him, that he had done this. He hated his son still, back then, grief warping his anger and blame onto his child. Yet all he could think, staring at that empty lot was _“He hates me. My little boy hates me.”_ Phillip was hardly a man for tears, but he’d cried that night. 

It was the best for a similar reason: he’d remembered something that he’d almost forgotten. He remembered that he loved his son. He remembered that Nicole, god rest her soul, had loved their son in the brief moments she’d held him. Jesus, if she’d been watching over them from heaven, she wouldn’t have recognized him. The Phillip she married barely even touched liquor. The Phillip she married would have never raised a hand to anyone, let alone his own child.

The Phillip she married wouldn’t have blamed his son for his wife’s death, either, but the Phillip she left behind would. And did.

Yes, the Phillip Nicole had left behind was capable of a lot of horrible, nasty things, wasn’t he?

But as Britt was always telling him, dwelling on things you couldn’t change wasn’t good for anything except making yourself miserable. And misery had often led Phillip to the bottom of the bottle. 

So, he circled back around to his initial problem. The cold. 

Even though he found himself groaning at the thought, he knew he’d have to get up and do something about it. And he could hardly get up and close the window _(he’d decided that had to be the issue, sleep muddled mind not being able to conjure up any other ideas)_ if he continued to lay there doing nothing. 

With a yawn wide enough to feel uncomfortable, he arched his back, pleasing his unusually stiff muscles, and opened his eyes. Three seconds after this he was seized into terror’s icy grip. 

Phillip was no longer in his bedroom. He had no idea where in the hell _this_ was, but it was definitely not his house.

A metal ceiling lined with caged, rectangular lights was the first unfamiliar thing that greeted him. The second he discovered when he attempted to scramble to his feet. His arms were behind him, bound together by something smooth, and collided with a hard, concrete-like material. Phillip grunted, struggling against his confines. All the while his panicked brain was racking itself for answers.

Who in the hell would kidnap him? He was a fucking _mechanic_ , so it’s not like he had enough money to warrant a ransom. Oh god, what if it was the _mob_ that had done this? They did shit like this to doctors all the time didn’t they? Held them against their will and forced them to do operations so the cops wouldn’t find out. He’d never heard of shit like that happening to a man of his humble profession, but he wouldn’t put it past sickos like that.

Only they were- _hopefully_ , at least- still in Haddonfield, New Jersey! He’d lived here for almost forty-five years and he’d never even heard rumors about any sort of mob activity. The closest they’d ever had to organized crime were the groups of teenagers selling botched baggies of cocaine in the park, certainly a far cry from _this_.

_Pull yourself together, Phil!,_ he was surprised to hear the voice of Brittany advise, from within his mind. Hearing her sent him into further panic. Where was his wife? What had they _done_ to her? He frantically looked around him, searching for an equally bound Brittany. She was not present, as far as he could tell. All he could see were yellow support beams (he supposed he was bound to one of those) and the concrete flooring mapping the area. This did little to ease him. Bile crept up the back of his throat. If not here then where?

_You can’t afford to worry about me right now Phil,_ Brittany voice continued, _Take a deep breath and calm down._

It wasn’t easy, heeding Britt’s advice, but he did. One in, one out. One in, one out. He continued this mantra for a little bit. After what felt like a few minutes his panic subsided. He could still feel it there, just under the surface of his mind, ready to strike again, but it was submerged for the moment.

_You're doing great hun. Now look around again. Try to get your bearings. What does this place say about your location?_

He did. In addition to what he’d seen earlier he discovered there were no windows. No telling what time it was either, then. There were loudspeakers in the four corners in the room. Well, he assumed there were four, because he couldn’t see the walls behind him. But it felt a fair assumption.

As if aware that he had noted them, a crackling voice spoke from above. 

_“Ah, Mr. Nashton! Finally awake I see. I was beginning to worry that your sleep was a bit more permanent than intended, but I am (for once) glad to have been proven wrong.”_

Like a shark that had caught the scent of blood, panic arose fiercely within him. “Where the hell is Brittany you sonofabitch?!” Phillip was embarrassed to say that he shrieked. 

There was a haughty scoff. It sounded eerily familiar, yet Phillip could not place where he might have heard such a voice before.

_“A spray-tanned bimbo like her_ would _be named Brittany.”_

“What the fuck did you do to my wife asshole?!” Phillip roared, bucking uselessly against his binds. He was aware of Brittney voice returning, telling him that he was doing nothing but hurting himself, and that he needed to calm down and breathe. It was drowned out by the howling cries of fury in his mind. How _dare_ this pompous motherfucker talk about his wife like that? If he hurt a single hair on her fucking head Phillip would beat him bloody, jail time or no. He was sure he could sell it as self defense if he played the part right. God only knew just how many times he’d lied to cops before.

_Right, because The Phillip Nicole Left Behind had a lot of covering up to do, didn’t he? All those noise complaints, CPS sniffing around like bloodhounds?_

_“I assure you, Mr. Nashton,”_ the pompous voice interrupted, _“you will be reunited with your wife in due time.”_

“What did you _do_ to her?”

_“Would you stop interrupting me? It’s incredibly rude!”_

Phillip felt everything stop for a moment. Was this guy fucking serious? _He’s nuts,_ Phillip thought, _I got nabbed out of my own fucking home by some sick psycho who’s probably gonna cut me up and sell my parts on the black market._

Pompous voice must have taken his silence as compliance, for the loudspeakers came to life once more.

_“‘Callooh callay!’, as my friend Jervis would say, ‘frabjous day’! He’s learnt basic manners after all. It only took forty-five years of your pathetic life, but better late than never I suppose!”_

“What do you want from me?” Phillip gave up asking about Britt. He had a sinking feeling in his gut about what ‘being reunited’ with her meant, and he was desperate to ignore it. She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be dead. He hadn’t even told her goodnight yet. That had no bearing over what this psycho might have done to her, yet he clung to that thought desperately. They’d never said good-bye so she _couldn’t_ have left. It was unfathomable.

_“What do I want? What do I WANT?”_ The voice took on a tone with expected fury, edge sharp and threatening to cut Phillip’s ears.

_“What I_ want _is to gouge your eyes out with a fork! What I_ want _is to strangle you with your own intestines! What I_ want _is to bust your stupid nose open with a crowbar, and force you to drink the blood!”_

Phillip’s gut clenched at the unsavory imagery, rage beginning to fade, panic circling back into its place. 

The voice took a deep breath, as if to calm down. After a few agonizing moments of dead air, it returned softer and full of hatred, venomous and slimy. _“What I want is simple. I want you to_ die _. But even more than that,_ Phillip”,his name was sneered, _“I want you to die knowing that you were wrong.”_

Phillip, who had never felt such confusion or terror in his life, was rendered speechless. Knowing it was a bad idea, yet not being able to resist, he spoke again.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

The voice’s silence spoke volumes. Phillip could feel the rage, the sheer unadulterated loathing, rolling off in waves. There was a warped sense of pride in this reaction. _I got you to shut the hell up, didn’t I, bastard? You’ll kill me, you probably killed my fucking wife too, but I got you to be quiet, didn’t I?_ Pitiful is what this was, clinging to such an insignificant win. Phillip knew this and did not care, clutching this tiny flicker of feeling unabashedly.

_“What belongs to you, but others use it more than you do?”_ The voice retained it’s quiet fury. 

Baffled even further, Phillip replied, incredulous, “Are you seriously asking me fucking riddles right now? Christ, I can’t tell if you're insane or just an idiot!” He laughed, humorlessly, just because he knew it would provoke him further. There was no point in tip-toeing around; the voice had said it already, he was going to die today, one way or another. 

_“The correct answer was a name, you moron. It is quite obvious that you do not know mine.”_ He scoffed again, some of his previous attitude seeming to return. _“You don’t even recognize my voice, do you?”_

“Must not be worth remembering.” Phillip spat back.

_“You’re wrong about that. Always have and always will be.”_ The voice was pouty, almost childish this time. 

“I don’t know what you’re-” Suddenly panic slammed into him, full force, swallowing him whole in it’s horrible jaws. 

He couldn’t remember why he’d been angry with the kid _(never did either, you were too sloshed to give a rat’s ass)_ only that he had been. Angry enough to throw the sorry bastard into the wall. Phillip had picked out the word’s he knew would hurt most, just the right ones to make Edward feel what he felt. 

“You’re a fucking moron, you know that? A shit-for-brains moron who will die having done nothing and _being_ just that: a nothing.” None of that was true at all. Edward was one of the smartest kids he’d ever known- hell probably one of the smartest _people_ he’d even known too. Always straight As, always top of the class. It made him hate his son all the more, then hate himself for having such thoughts. 

Edward, mustering all the defiance a sixteen-year old boy could, had glared up at him with those big green eyes of his. Nicole’s eyes, boring into him. Hating him. And he’d said, in that same cold, spiteful tone:

“You’re wrong. You always say that, but you're wrong. You’re just jealous because I’m better than you ever were, and you know it.”

Phillip had broken his nose that night. Because Edward was exactly right.

“Eddie?” He croaked. Was this fear? Despair? Anger? They all seemed to blur together into one hulking monster of negativity. He deserved every bit of it, Phillip knew. 

_“Don’t call me that!”_ Edward shot back. Was that Edward sobbing or Phillip? _“You don’t get to call me that!”_

“I’m so sorry. Oh God, Ed you don’t know how sorry..” Phillip cut himself off sniveling. Where to begin? How was one supposed to pack nineteen years worth of abuse into an apology? How could Edward ever forgive that?

_“It’s too late for sorry, and this banter has gone on long enough. You are wrong, and I am right. We both acknowledge this. Now you’ll die knowing that and I’ll move on with my life. That’s all there is to it.”_

Phillip wanted to burst into tears right then, assuming he hadn’t already. He knew this to be true but hearing it made it hurt so much worse.

At this point a quiet hissing sound had begun to emit from the air vents. Phillip did not notice it. 

He did notice, however was the sudden difficulty in getting oxygen into his lungs. He gasped, a horrible whooping sound. Once more he bucked from within his confines. The air reeked of bitter almonds. The world swung this way and that, leaving the terrified man seasick.

Phillip managed to choke out one final plea to his son. It falls on deaf ears and he hears no response.

Breathing was damn near impossible for Phillip. His lungs fought for each shallow raspy breath. As well as being coated in a thin foam of vomit, his lips were a deadly shade of blue.

Phillip Nashton’s last coherent thought is a strange one.

_I always hated almonds._

And then he is dead.

\---

Edward watched this all silently from inside his Lamborghini. In the early stages of planning he had toyed with the idea of creating an insulated room within the factory so he would have front row seats to the fruits of his labor. Now he is infinitely glad he decided against this. He’d almost vomited himself when Phillip started convulsing, face turning red as he struggled for breath. It was grotesque. It was revolting. It was disturbing.

_It was well deserved,_ his conscience reminded him. And he concedes that yes, it was. Every bit of it. 

He just wished he hadn’t seen it.

If only to distract himself from such thoughts, he forced himself to remember the final phase of this plan. Cleaning up the evidence. 

Then his eyes wander back to the screen built into the dashboard. 

He sighed, scrubbing at his eyes. This is a stupid decision that he’s about to make, he’s aware of that, but nonetheless he feels he cannot help it. 

With a quick flick of the wrist his monitor switches off. He cut the engine right after. Then, grasping the handle beside his seat, he jerked it back. The car seat extended backwards allowing him to lay down. 

Finally he removed his gun and hat, gun going into the glove box hat onto his eyes.

The bodies will still be there in the morning. But for now Edward is going to sleep.

He deserves that much, at least.

**_-FIN-_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Two things worth mentioning:
> 
> 1\. The riddle used is not my own. Got it off google.
> 
> 2\. Haddonfield is a real town in New Jersey. I have never personally been there, nor do I hold any ill opinions of it. I felt like adding it in based on a review I saw of it on a travel website. (Probably Trivago). It said something along the lines of "Everyone that lives here loves the town. Nothing else remarkable about it." After reading this, I felt that a town of that nature would be fitting in this story.


End file.
